


Sword and Shield

by winterstale24



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Jaime and Brienne Fic Exchange 2020, Magical Realism, Modern Westeros, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25812592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterstale24/pseuds/winterstale24
Summary: Written for Roccolinde's promptsAuthor's favourite trope! I want to see what you love - and, so, we have bickering Jaime and Brienne.SVRCINA - Meet Me On The Battlefield -- any inspiration from this is fine, but a take on a Long Night that lasts more than a few hours would definitely be welcomeTell me a ghost story. It can be canon or AU, spooky or bittersweet or funny, whatever you like! Bonus points if Jaime or Brienne is the ghost, but not necessary******He knew the answer before she could huff and snort and screw her jewel-blue eyes shut. Brienne Payne might be a glorified, flannel-wearing barmaid, but she lusted for Valyrian steel as much as Jaime did. Hells, he knew the answer two swords ago, the first time he’d crossed the threshold of The Evenstar and asked her to take him out on the Tarth fells for a look around.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34
Collections: Jaime x Brienne Fic Exchange 2020





	Sword and Shield

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Roccolinde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/gifts).



_The Swords’ Shield_

_When Westerosian history is discussed, the conversation rarely goes on long before the fabled Valyrian swords of Westeros and their fate is mentioned. Given names that even have mythic scale_ — _Vigilance, Brightroar, Longclaw, Red Rain, Blackfyre, Dark Sister_ — _these blades have become the stuff of shadowy legend, lost to the ages. For hundreds of years, their existence was considered as unlikely as dragons in the skies over King’s Landing. That is, until a tenacious museum curator and archeologist, Jaime Hill, trudged out of the great wash of peat fields stretching north from the ruin that was Winterfell castle and delivered into public consciousness a sword matching ages-old descriptions of House Tarly’s ancient Valyrian blade, Heartsbane._

_Five years on, Hill has found two more of the ancient Valyrians: Red Rain and another, as-yet unnamed sword. He claims his secret to finding them is nothing more than careful reading of history and battle tactics, and a willingness to live rough with his own variety of knight’s quest for the long-buried blades._

_In this, his first interview since his discovery of that mystery sword, Dr. Jaime Hill talks to Westeros Radio Times about digging deep into history to discover Red Rain in the Iron Islands and the meaning of artifacts in a world that may have passed the age of their relevance._

  


“Seven preserve us, that’s a load of shite.”

“Shite?” Dr. Jaime Hill leaned forward, rising over the heavy oak bar. “It’s all true, wench. Well, it’s a bit purply, the prose, but I have, in fact, found those three swords.”

Brienne Payne rolled her eyes for the fifth time after laying those same eyes on the glossy weekly and pushed aside the copy of _Westerosi Radio Times._ “They tarted you up like a film star. Where are your specs? Since when do you wear hair gel?”

The professor grinned impishly. “They put me in Martell, too.”

“What in seven hells is a Martell?” Brienne drew out the last syllables into a plummy sneer. Jabbing her barcloth-covered fist at the magazine cover, she laughed deeply. “Are you wearing eyeliner in that cover photo?”

Jaime snatched the pages away from the dripping rag. “A bit of contour, under the eyes. I’d just flown in from the North only the night before.” He grumbled and wiped the glossy paper with a napkin.

“And, boy, was your ego tired.”

“This isn’t an ego piece.” He tucked the magazine away in his satchel and sat it beside him in the next chair, resting over his other bags. “Although, if you’d like to join in for the next installment…”

“Next installment? Have you really come all this way to my little island—”

“So you admit it’s your island, wench?”

“I live here, therefore it’s my home, colloquially _my_ island—”

“Right, you’re admitting it, it’s your island.”

“All mine.” She snorted, exasperated. “Along with me, Goodwin by the telly over there, seventy-eight other souls, and over twelve-odd-thousand sheep. Oh, and five abandoned, overworked marble quarries. This Eden, this Tarth, is ours.”

Jaime leaned in again, coming close to Brienne’s ear. “I can change your mind, wench.”

“Stop calling me that. It’s not as charming as you think, Professor.”

“Don’t you want to know what I’ve found on my travels?”

He knew the answer before she could huff and snort and screw her jewel-blue eyes shut. Brienne Payne might be a glorified, flannel-wearing barmaid, but she lusted for Valyrian steel as much as Jaime did. Hells, he knew the answer two swords ago, the first time he’d crossed the threshold of The Evenstar and asked her to take him out on the Tarth fells for a look around.

“No, I don’t care what you’ve found on your travels.” She tossed her barcloth aside. “Five years, Jaime, and you still don’t get it. Even if I wanted to, I can’t. It’s not my decision to make. Those brochs are protected areas. Not to be disturbed. Not to be trod on, not to be dug about. The council controls the island, and they’ve told you no.”

Jaime plonked back into his seat, a deep sigh rumbling from his throat. “It’s bloody selfish and stupid of them.”

“It’s over eight hundred years of tradition and legal entanglement and, most importantly, the rights of the people of this island to stay well the hell out of Westerosi bullshit.”

“Ah, there’s my wench.” Jaime saluted her with a tip of his pint glass. “You speak like a Northern separatist.”

Eyes rolling for the sixth time, Brienne turned and came from behind the bar.

“Look, Jaime, we’ve discussed this. I understand, really, I do. I’d love to see what’s under those brochs upisland.” Her voice hummed low as she leaned in to him. “Don’t you think knowing Tarth’s history—her history —means more to me than I can explain?”

He grinned up at her, eyebrows lifting over the rims of his glasses. “Maybe I should sweeten the pot, then.”

“No.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Nothing can change—”

“I’ll make it worth your while, wench. Close the bar and come back to me,” he said, his voice dipping low. “I’ve brought something for you from the Westerlands.”

Seconds ticked. They stared at each other, silent.

Brienne blinked first. “Seven above.” She grumbled and looked over Jaime’s shoulder at the other occupant of the pub. “Goodwin, be on your way. I’m closing for the afternoon.”

After a fair bit of irritated banter between the barmaid and her only patron, old Goodwin shuffled off into the gray, blustery Tarth afternoon. Brienne closed the door after him and pulled the locks home. She crossed the length of the room, arms folded across her chest.

“Right, then. You have fifteen minutes.” She leaned against the bar a few paces from Jaime and nodded toward the heavy plastic case and carry-on at his feet. “I assume you’re not hauling around a hunting rifle in that Gods-awful case.”

“Let’s save that,” Jaime said. “First, a bit of reading.”

Reaching down toward his carry-on, he withdrew a pair of purple nitrile gloves from his jacket pocket and handed them to her.

“Gloves at the ready?” Brienne said with a soft smirk as she pulled them over her hands. “You knew you’d sucker me in to giving you a hearing, didn’t you?”

He answered with a quiet chuckle as he withdrew a small, cloth-wrapped package. “Oh, I’m always sure of you, wench.”

After passing his hand over the bartop for any wet spots, satisfied, Jaime laid the bundle before them. He pulled the lengths of cotton twine away with gentle fingers, setting them atop the old oak. Looking up at Brienne, he raised his hand to his glasses and pushed them into place. The air between them fairly hummed.

“Well… Go on,” she whispered.

He lifted the ends of the cloth and draped them away from their contents.

“There you are, wench,” he said softly.

“It’s…”

“Yes, it is.”

“Impossible.”

“No, it’s not. It’s real.”

“The Hours.” Brienne glanced, wondering, from Jaime to the little book’s jewel and gold-encrusted leather cover. “Where…”

“Would you believe it’s been sitting in the archives in King’s Landing for over two hundred years?”

“No.” She gasped shallowly. “I’ve never seen it. Where—”

“Not on display. In storage. Miscatalogued.”

“Unbelievable.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Jaime almost giggled and nudged Brienne’s shoulder with his own. “I’d have never known it was sitting right there under me in the museum, but your good cousin had a fit of industry and decided to reorganize the late Targaryen papers. And there it was, fallen behind a shelf.”

“Impossible,” Brienne whispered again, nearly giggling herself.

“You keep saying that word, but I assure you, it is quite possible.” He nodded toward the book. “Go on, then. Have a look.”

She reached for the cover and suddenly withdrew. “I can’t. It’s too… I’m too…”

“Brienne, I assure you, it’s a sturdy little thing. Oversewn with waxed cotton. Pod juggled it like a brace of bowling pins, all the way to my office. Go on, you won’t hurt it.”

With a single extended finger, Brienne lifted the cover and guided it to Jaime’s waiting glove-covered palm. Inside the yellowed pages showed lines and lines of careful, yet childish, fading script. She looked to him, eyes wide.

“This is a child’s diary.”

“Not just any child,” Jaime said, nodding. Jutting his chin, he indicated the endpaper. “Look, just there. Can you make it out?”

Brienne leaned closer to the book, squinting as she read, “The true account of the life of—Jaime!”

“Go on, wench.”

“It can’t be…” she looked to him and back to the page. “ _The true account of the life of Tyrion Lannister, having had eight name days and three moons thereafter, in the summer of King Robert Baratheon, first of his name_ … Crone’s tits, Jaime!”

“I know!” This time they did both break into giggles, clasping each other’s unoccupied hand, still in disbelief.

“Have you been able to make out anything vital? It’s a remarkable piece, just in terms of craftsmanship, of course, but the account of a boy from this age, in particular this boy—”

“Not just any boy. The brother of a queen. The Hand of another. The Last Lannister.”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment and this time completely collapsed with giddy laughter.

“Have you been able to read any of it?”

“Oh, a bit. Just a word or two.”

“You liar, you’ve been able to read the lot of it.” Brienne huffed. “Well…tell me, what does Tyrion Lannister have to say for his eight-year-old self?”

“Bit of outrage here and there. Some mention of his father and sister—apparently, he felt they were unfair to him much of the time—and a few passages about his older brother, who, it seems, wasn’t so horrible. Ser Jaime Lannister. In fact, he gifted young Tyrion this book for his name day.”

“The Kingslayer? A loving big brother?”

“Amazing, isn’t it? Completely contradicts everything we’ve learned about him.” Jaime’s eyebrows lifted over the rims of his glasses.

“And?”

“And?”

“Oh, come on, Jaime, you wouldn’t have risked coming all this way, with your very expensive cases if there wasn’t more.”

“Oh, there’s more.” He shrugged. “I just need to know you’re going to take me seriously this time.”

“I always take you serious—” She stopped, closing her mouth and grimacing. “Fucking hells, I should have known you’d do this.” Standing, she ripped the gloves from her hands and tossed them in Jaime’s face before striding on long legs toward the pub’s door. She flung the door open, shocking old Goodwin who stood by the window, peering in. “Out.”

“Brienne, plea—”

“I say out!”

“I won’t until you’ve listened to me.” Jamie rose to his full height. “This time, you need to _hear_ me out.”

Behind Brienne, her only patron nudged his head inside The Evenstar’s door. “E’rythin’ all right in there, Hostess?”

Brienne’s eyes never left Jaime’s as she shoved the inebriated man aside. “Go home, Goodwin, if you can find your way.” She locked the door behind him.

“He won’t talk, will he?”

“What’s in the case, Jaime?”

“Before I show you, tell me he won’t talk.”

“No one would listen to Goodwin if he did talk, he’s a sot.” She strode back to Jaime, glaring. “Now, we’re back to fifteen minutes--.”

“Wench, let’s call a truce.”

“My trust is feeling rather bruised for a truce.”

“I trust _you_.” He barked out a laugh. “Look at what I’ve absconded with from the museum – and what you haven’t seen—and tell me I don’t trust you.” He held out his still-gloved hands, shrugging. “How many years have we been doing this? You have to sit and look and listen. I promise you won’t regret it, once you start believing.”

“Fine,” she mumbled and sat beside where he stood. She jerked the offered gloves from him and drew them over her hands once more. “What’s in the case?”

“No messing about, huh?” He dropped to a crouch beside her. “Be very still. No sudden movements, all right?”

She rolled her eyes. “No sudden…? What in the—” Brienne gasped, stepping back and crashing into the bar as a sword rose between them. Jaime took a quick step away from her, carefully balancing the weight in his hands. It nearly sang as it moved through the air. A faint halo of light bounced off the dark blade as Jaime adjusted his grip on the golden hilt. “Gods…”

“This is, wench, your gift from the Westerlands, courtesy of one Tyrion Lannister.” He dipped the blade, scattering reddish-gold light across the room.

Brienne’s eyes traveled the length of the sword, clearly marveling at the shimmer thrown over the walls and air between them. “Is it Valyrian?” she whispered

“It is.”

“Is it the Lannister sword? The one that was never recovered?”

“Well, if you see here on the pommel, you’ll notice it has all the hallmarks of that house’s sigil and colors. But, no, this isn’t Brightroar.” Their eyes met over the blade, and Jaime swallowed before going on. “The provenance of this one doesn’t exist in any of the literature.”

“But a Lannister sword.”

“It would seem so. Look here.” He turned the pommel in his hand so she could see the flat of the blade. There, below the hilt, etched along the forte edge, in small, old Westerosi script, read _Maiden’s Kiss_.

“How did you know where to find it?” she murmured, still transfixed by the blade between them, and sat heavily on a barstool.

“I read the little journal.”

Brienne looked to Jaime again, this time a look of confusion passing her features. “Tyrion Lannister’s journal? But that was written when he was a child—the Lannisters had no Valyrians during his lifetime.”

“Not in his _early_ lifetime. Widow’s Wail came later to Joffrey Baratheon, but it was destroyed with the Red Keep at the end of the Mad Queen’s reign. And it’s what he wrote about before all that, anyway. He had a hiding place—an ingenious one for this sort of thing—and I just…” Jaime shrugged, laughing softly. “I just followed the words. Just like I’ve done with the others.”

She sat back, pushing at an errant lock of pale blond hair. “And where was this hiding place? I won’t ask how you managed access to Casterly, especially the fire-damaged and blown-out bits.”

“The Lord’s solar at the Rock—what was left of it, anyway. Hidden panel. Nothing extraordinary, unless you’re an eight-year-old boy. One who wrote extensively of the world to the east of Casterly Rock in this journal. Nonetheless…” Nodding, he carefully held out the sword to her. “Want to hold it?”

Brienne’s cheeks colored, and she stood, adjusting the purple material covering her wrists like a lady might delicately tug at her kidskin gloves. She extended her hands toward him slowly, waiting. “Yes. Yes, please.”

He tilted the blade away from them, holding the pommel end parallel to the floor. “It’s lighter than it looks. But sharp. Deadly sharp, even still. Do be careful.”

Brienne reached for the grip, her long fingers twining between Jaime’s. As soon as her hand settled behind the cross-guard, a flash of blue light coursed from the sword, sending both of them to their knees. The door flung wide, opened by a howl of wind, punctuated by the clang of metal against the floor beneath them.

“Hostess?” Goodwin’s shadow fell across the threshold. “Are ye well?”

Jaime glared at her, accusing. “Damn it to seven hells!”

“I locked that,” Brienne called out, scurrying to her feet. “I locked up! I did!”

“Go,” Jaime shouted over the din. “Quickly, no one can see! I’ll put it away.”

She rushed to shut the clattering door dancing wildly in its frame. This time, she dragged one of the heavy oak pub tables across the floor and pushed it against the door. Turning to him, hands on hips, she scowled.

“Okay, professor. You’ve got my attention.”

“After all of that, I’ve got my own, as well. How about a drink and then we try this again?”

  


  


After downing a pint in silence, with Brienne’s eyes cast down at the bar all the while, Jaime sat Tyrion Lannister’s little journal between them again.

“So we know, as Tyrion wrote in his journal, the brochs were used in wartime and famine as central places to gather people and resources. My question is, why was eight-year-old Tyrion Lannister fascinated with them?”

“Are we really doing this?” Brienne muttered, weary.

“Yes, wench. It’s time we do this.”

“All right, then.” She pushed at her glass, her blue eyes flashing. “Yes, you have most of it. There were twelve of them, all told. They ringed Tarth’s coastline. Of those, seven are ruins, and likely were before Tyrion Lannister’s time. As to his interest, I haven’t a clue.” She rattled the facts he knew off easily. Too easily. She knew he knew this.

“Twelve? You’re lying, Brienne.” Jaime stared hard over the rims of his glasses. “Don’t do it again.”

She turned to him, nearly spitting. “I’m not lying! The one you seek isn’t… It’s not on the coast. That’s the reason every Westerosi bastard before you has come up dry.” His eyes widened, and she went on. “You think you’re the first? Hardly. They’ve been coming across the straits, looking for the Maid since she left that thrice-damned shitpool eight hundred years ago.”

Brienne was angry. Truly, deeply, quietly angry, like Jaime had never seen from her in the five years they’d known each other. And she had just confirmed to him more about Tarth’s Maid in Blue than she’d acknowledged in those same five years.

And speaking like a Northern separatist indeed.

Hate for the mainland came honestly to Tarth, like their Northern cousins. Left to its own devices against insurmountable odds, the island had suffered first the vengeance of the Mad Lannister Queen, Cersei, and then the ever-tightening clasp of another unpredictable and wrathful woman —Daenerys Targaryen. Now, mostly the provenance of scholars of the age of kings, but still lightly recognized by even the laziest student, this history was well-known to modern Westeros.

“When you were a child, what did you dream of becoming when you grew up?” Brienne asked, her voice once again soft.

“I…” Jaime shrugged. “A footballer until I realized I’d never be good enough. Nothing like my father, I knew for certain. I knew I wanted to do good things.” He turned to her. “I wanted to belong somewhere.”

“You see, I never had that choice. I knew the Evenstar was waiting, and it was my fate. I wanted to leave, go to study somewhere, find my own way, but I couldn’t. This is all I was intended to do.” Her words rang of some finality Jaime couldn’t understand, but he saddened at them all the same. He reached for her hand. “I will tell you this, which is more than I’m meant to. Jaime, you have to understand, I never had a choice about who I was to become.”

“I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, and the knowing of it fell heavy on his gut.

“So am I, because I’ve failed at it again and again. Failed because of you, coming here with your little discoveries and your… _you_.”

“Brienne—”

“You know more already than you should. And this is all I can tell you. I am bound to this island and those brochs and after touching that sword… it feels true now in a way it didn’t an hour ago. I’m owned by Tarth, Jaime, and duty-bound to it. I fear it, the duty I was born to. It’s bigger than me and almost a thousand years old.”

Before he could think better of it, Jaime placed his hand over hers where it lay on the bartop. “This isn’t the Age of Kings, Brienne. There’s no liege lord holding you here, saying what you can or can’t do.”

“Yes, there is.” She stood, slipping her fingers away from his. Her broad shoulders drew in, and she crossed the pub floor, disappearing into what he knew to be the small, attached residence. “You can have the room upstairs if you can’t make the ferry.”

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more info on brochs, visuals, etc. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Broch

**Author's Note:**

> Much love for my forever-beta and her glorious paddle of THAT.
> 
> A Tarth visual https://pbs.twimg.com/media/CySZVl5UAAAn2g7?format=jpg&name=medium
> 
> And more info on brochs https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Broch


End file.
